Rory Gilmore: DJ Extraordinar?
by Hard to Say
Summary: She didn’t ask for it. She didn’t want it. But life at Chilton will definitely be a whole lot more bizarre for Rory when she accidentally lands a spot on the schools morning radio show. The things one does for college. (Trory)
1. : à l'amou (to love)

Disclaimer: I'm sorry, are you under the impression I own something? 

~*~*~ 

Authors Notes: My slightly crazy, slightly humorous, and somewhat sappy romantic prelusion into the alluring world of writing. Love it. Hate it. Review it!   
(I'm looking to do a longer fiction, mayhap including more romance and a pinch of drama. I'd like to team up with someone to write it though, as I have bad commitment habits and a tendency to writers block. Interested? E-mail me at   
optimistic_thought@ hotmail.com.)-HTS 

~*~*~ 

**Rory Gilmore: DJ Extraordinar?**

_Chapter 1: à l'amou (to love)_

~*~*~ 

_(A/N: Enter our heroine…)_

Sunlight seeped through the sheer drapes that hung lazily down the sides of the modest window. Slowly it slunk across the floor, sidling up the worn oak of the night stand. Then, as it had every day, approached the small mechanical device. 

The defining buzzing noise began its customary wailing, and the Gilmore house commenced its morning rituals. 

Slowing a hand emerged from the depths of the faded blankets, snaking out to silence the annoying alarm with unsuspecting force. As the appendage fell limp as the incessant noise was cut off, a no less vexatious sound drifted down the stairs. 

"Rory!" Came the pathetic cry. "Help me!" 

Incoherent grumbling was heard from under the multitude of blankets. With a sudden jerk, the girl wrenched herself free of the sheets and swung her pajama clad legs over the side of the bed. Raising one petite hand to cover an immense yawn, she hopped onto the frigid wooden floor. Grimacing as the cold made its way into her skin she gritted her teeth. 

"Mom! Can't you scream at a decent hour?" she whined at the stair case as she threw open her door, sighing she yellled, "The pink scrunchy is by the sink, the sparkly head band is under the couch, and that utterly vile hat of yours is somewhere under your bed!" 

The ensuing sounds of effort indicated that Lorelei was after the later. Grumbling words that were best left unheard, Rory made her way to the coffee pot, the one light in her life. She allowed a small smile to creep over her lips as she reached for her Mickey Mouse mug. The smile faltered as she encountered a note taped to the coffee-maker. 

_'Coffee-maker broken. Gods graces have abandoned us. Death is now inevitable.'_

"MOM!" She screamed as she ran up the stairs, bounding up three at a time. "You said you'd fix it YESTERDAY!" 

"Fix what?" came the muffled reply. 

The sun shone merrily through the front window, smiling pleasantly down on the small town of Stars Hollow. 'Twas the start of another Monday in the Gilmore girls saga. 

~*~*~ 

_(A/N: Enter the romantic interest…)_

The steamy cup warmed her hands as she clutched it close to the front of her blazer while she shuffled unenthusiastically down the hall on her morning trip to visit her crotchety old locker. Some people didn't seem to realize that most inanimate objects; i.e. lockers, had personalities. But with a mother like hers, Rory was intimately aware of such details. This did not, however, make life any easier. 

Biting her tongue against words a drunken sailor would be proud of, Rory tugged at the mischievous handle of her uncooperative locker. 

"Open," she hissed through gritted teeth, all too aware of the odd looks her fellow classmates tossed her way as they passed. Realizing the futility of the exertion Rory's shoulders sagged and she pounded her forehead against the cool blue painted metal. The hatch popped out a little, allowing access to the contents within. After starring at the opening in disbelief, her mouth forming an 'o' of surprise, the sound of approaching footsteps warned her that her torment was far from over. 

"Are you planing on catching a few bugs that way?" The suave voice gently purred. "Or are you finally admiting you want my tongue in it?" The suggestive comment hung in the air between them. 

Inhaling deeply, counting back from ten, thinking happy thoughts, Rory turned to face the bane of her existence. 

"The only thing I think I want your tongue in Tristan," she growled, "Is an operating blender."   
She bent down to retrieve her precious drink, and the less-important book bag. 

"Why Mary," The blonde headed young man continued undaunted, "If you keep saying things like that people might get the impression you might not like me." He leaned his prep-boy figure against the lockers next to her, casually inspecting his finger nails as he let a dangerous grin spread over his features. 

"Oh my!" Bitter sarcasm dripping from her voice, "We wouldn't want that." She began arduously shoving books into her locker. Finished, she slammed the door closed once more, eyes burning with kindled rage turned to her tormentor. "Look, this is a sick game. You don't like me, I don't like you. You just get off on some demented thrill from this. Go back and join your fellow slime under whatever rock you slithered out of." Scowling at his irritably cheerful face, she hefted the weighty backpack over her shoulder, downed the rest of the quickly cooling elixir, spun around and headed for French class. 

~*~*~ 

Tristan DuGrey, infamous playboy prep-boy of the acclaimed halls of Chilton Preparatory Academy, watched with impish glee the retreating back of Rory Gilmore. This mornings banter seemed a bit more acidic then normal, he wondered what was bugging her as he lifted himself off the lockers and joined the milling crowds of students. 

Love was a word that had been part of his vocabulary for as long as he could remember, a word he had cast upon many of his romantic conquests, but one he saw little meaning in. Remembering the blaze in her exquisite baby blue eyes as she berated him, he contemplated attaching the word to amorphous feelings he had concerning Rory. Furrowing his brow in puzzlement, he found he wasn't sure. He had none in his affluent, well-to-do life, and couldn't, therefore, use it. 

Rory Gilmore was someone he admired. At first, he found this rather difficult to choke down, after all, Tristan DuGrey didn't admire anyone, especially the new Mary. But her fresh beauty had hit him like a semi, her sharp wit left his careful schemas in shreds, he had found her a passion, an incurable addiction, and could not for the life of him get her out of his head. She stimulated him in a way no girl ever had. In his cold, sterile, cookie-cutter life she made him _feel_. When he was with her, every second was infused with life, his dead senses blazed with new found vitality. It was too bad he acted like a third grader around her. 

As he sat, scribbling down the names of dead guys, who were _way_ too quill-happy, he cringed as he thought of the way he acted around her. It was her fault, he tried to rationalize. She was just too real for him to act the way he normally did, she didn't fall at his feet, however good-looking they may be. And so his inner child, something he though lost long ago, re-awoke and whispered naughty suggestions in his mind. Pull up her dress! Bury her dolls in the sand! Call her names like 'bogger-brain'! Yet he did posses _some_ level of maturity, so instead of 'booger-brain' her called her 'Mary', instead of burying her dolls in the sand he stole her books, and instead of pulling up her skirt…_wait_…he rubbed his shoulder at the memory, it still felt sore. 

~*~*~ 

The blackboard slipped in and out of focus as Rory sat, occasionally listing to Madame Hibba expound on the wonders of conjugating verbs. She was obviously riveted in her seat. 

And some people say that these are the best years of their lives. Well, Excusez-moi? Rory thought it should be noted that the people who said such things were the prom queens and the sports kings, the crème de la collecte. People like her Grandmother, though the mental image she got picturing Emily Gilmore in a skimpy cheerleading uniform, or an 'indecent' prom dress, was enough to start her off in gales of laughter. In any event, she was not one of the crème de la collecte _(cream of the crop)_, the dessus du segment de mémoire _(top of the heap)_. 'Bah! Enough French idioms!' she scolded herself inwardly. 

But imagining her Grandmother as a cheerleader was easier then letting her mind wander to other things. 'à l'amour' Madame Hibba chirped, as she demonstrated the conjugation. '_To love_'. 

Somedays, the world just had it in for her. 

The word echoed through her brain. _'To love'_. She wanted to beat it out. Or rather, throttle the one person who made the thoughts of it so unbearable. There was only one person so infuriating, so insufferable, that stirred such impassioned, albeit negative, emotions in her that she could not forget the image of said person. 

Tristan DuGrey. Menace to woman-kind everywhere. The scourge of her life at Chilton. 

And _yet_, oh yes, she could never quite get rid of that 'yet', she felt…Why was it so hard to admit…an _attraction_. A weak, pathetic attraction! She reasoned out. But truth be told, she, on some _totally_ whacked out level, enjoyed their morning bickering, the horrible puns and sexually suggestive comments he threw at her. He made her stay on her toes, to match him, insult for insult. She knew it sounded crazy, but even crazy was something after all. 

"Mlle Gilmore, puisqu'I.m sûrs vous avaient prêté une attention particulière, veuillez venir démontrent la conjugaison de ce verbe. Mlle Gilmore?" 

_("Miss Gilmore, since I'm sure you have been paying close attention, please come demonstrate the conjugation of this verb. Miss Gilmore?")_

"Ce qui!?" she squeaked. _("What!?")_

Walking to the board, the not-so-silent snickering of her peers making her ears burn, Rory came to the conclusion that many a student before her found. French teachers are evil, conniving demon-type minions from Hades. 

~*~*~ 

Thoughts of French and Tristan, and not so un-coincidentally, French-kissing Tristan were shoved far back in her mind as she stood of her tip-toes, searching the extra curricular bulletin board for an exhilarative, or at least not incredibly boring class, she stumbled across a neon yellow flyer/form. The snazzy cover art drew her attention to the title, a public telecommunications course? She smiled, but didn't think it too likely, it had the word 'public' in it, something her slightly antisocial, or rather, Chilton antisocial tendencies would not allow her to go. She instead grabbed a form for a beginners microbiology class, and unable to fit the first sheet back on the board, shoved both into her folder and hurried off to Pre-Calculus. 

~*~*~ 

_(A/N: Enter the antagonist, dun dun duuun. . .)_

Paris Gellar was ambitious to say the least. She was headed for the top, and nothing, not failed crushes, unsuccessful sororities, or _even_ Rory Gilmore, were going to keep her from her goals. As her latest road block to success entered the front office, she immediately set herself to high alert, slinking cautiously over to the aged and foreboding mahogany desk, she threw a surreptitious glance at the forms Rory handed to the secretary. Had she been a loony -toons character, her ears would have been spouting smoke and comical sound effects as she caught sight of the form she saw the brunette had over. 

Rory could not take microbiology, she was taking that!? It was _her_ class, _her_ dream, and Rory did not figure into it. She was positively seething as she watched the other girl leave, but not so caught up in her own anger to miss the paper that fell from her binder. In a flash she snatched the loose paper, carefully scanning it. A humanities course, harmless, why couldn't Rory have taken that one instead? 

'_Wait a minute…_' A slow grin, not unlike the skin-crawling smirk of the Grinch, slowly seeped across the face of one Paris Gellar. The well oiled wheels of her brain speeding away as a perfect plot formed in her mind. With her 'connections' in the secretaries office, it would hardly be a bother to see that Rory got a quick, unanticipated detour in her scheduling. 

With the form was tightly secured in her own folder Paris set off to set her brilliant, if slightly evil plot in motion. 

~*~*~ 

_To be continued…when author gets around to it…_

***More Authors Notes: I shall now commence with the shameless groveling for feedback. Ahem. Please?! Pretty please? With sugar and ice cream -soy for all you lactose intolerant guys- and a cherry on top? I need input! INPUT! *Cheesy 'Short Circuit' imitation* Oh come on! Who doesn't like #5?*** 

-HTS   



	2. : When Schedules Go Wrong

Authors Notes: More of my slightly crazy, slightly humorous, and somewhat sappy romantic prelusion into the alluring world of writing. Love it. Hate it. Review it!   
(I'm looking to do a longer fiction, mayhap including more romance and a pinch of drama. I'd like to team up with someone to write it though, as I have bad commitment habits and a tendency to writers block. Interested? E-mail me at   
optimistic_thought@ hotmail.com.)-HTS 

~*~*~ 

***I'd like to send out a hardy thank you to Princess Ruby, for catching my blatant misuse of the French Language in the previous chapter. The problem has been rectified according to her suggestions, as I only have moderate experience in high school Spanish and rely heavily on my nifty translator program. Thank you.*** 

~*~*~ 

**Rory Gilmore: DJ Extraordinar?**

_Chapter 2: When Schedules Go Wrong_

~*~*~ 

Tuesday, to the untrained eye, might look the exact same as Monday, but really it was a whole new day. After hurling her alarm against the wall, and wishing her many other problems were as easily silenced, Rory managed to get to her cherished coffee. 

"I love you Mom." She grinned as she set up the shiny new coffee-maker. Lorelei entered the kitchen, her pink fuzzy bathrobe slightly askew. Any broken appliance, in the hands of her mother never boded well. Always the prideful one, Lorelei absolutely refused to admit her lack of any kind of mending abilities. They buried it in the backyard. 

"Less chit-chat, more pouring." Eyes squinted against the entirely too bright light of the morning sun, Rory's mother slumped herself in a chair. 

"Why, mom, why so uncommunicative on such a lovely morn?" Handing her mother a cup of the sweet liquid, Rory went in search of new quarry, the illusive pop-tarts. 

A thunk-like sound was heard from the table as Lorelei's head collided with it. 

"Don't use your fancy-shmancy words on me little missy. That 'I Love Lucy' marathon was worth ever minute of sleep that I didn't get." 

Sliding the frosted pastries into the toaster, Rory went to sit by her mother. After several long quaffs of coffee, she smiled, "Mom, I _told_ you, you'd regret it, just think of all the lovely times you'll have today; arguing with Michel? Not to mention Sookie just got a new vegetable shredder." 

A lackadaisical finger was pointed at Rory in accusation. "You, demon child, are not my daughter. My daughter, loves 'I love Lucy' and would not miss such an enlightening experience as Lucial Ball shoving a variety of chocolates down her shirt. She also would not torment her poor, dear, overworked, underpaid mother." A slight pause as Lorelei's jaw seemed to become unhinged, letting out the largest yawn Rory had ever seen and droped her head back down, "The mother that fixed our beloved coffee-maker." An eye, a _single_ eye became visible under the mass of dark hair, daring, just _daring_ her to mock someone of such a munificence nature. The hand then fell, lifeless across the wooden table, "Now, go be a good demon-child, and fetch me a pop-tart…" Her vice faded off as her breathing became even. 

Shaking her head, Rory did as she was commanded. Leaving the strawberry filled delectable with easy reach of her mother, she left to get dressed for another long day of glaring Paris' and lecherous Tristan's, not to mention the endless stream of work and teachers with no empathetic inclinations. 

As she left her room, dressed and ready, she found her mothers prone body spread across the kitchen table, half the coffee untouched and cooling fast, the pop-tart had been knocked to the floor. Rolling her eyes, in a cross between exasperation and amusement, she gently shook Lorelei's shoulder. 

"Mom, wake up." Her efforts were to no avail. Tapping her foot, now fully in a state of irritation, she pondered how she was to get her inert mother to wake. The solution was obvious, reaching slowly, she extended her arm towards her mothers 'Charlie's Angles' mug, trying not to slosh the drink, she pulled it across the table towards her. "Mother," she called in a sing-song voice, "Since you're on your TV binge and hangover cycle, I'll just finish this for you…" 

Quicker then the human eye was capable of observing, Lorelei's arm shot out and grabbed Rory's shirt collar, "Point made, oh child of evil. Put coffee back on table and step slowly away, or evil, nasty things shall befall you." 

Rory smiled, "I'll see you later too." She leaned down and kissed her mother on the top of the head. "Don't pass out from sleep depravation today." Lifting he bag onto her back she turned to leave. "I hope you learned your lesson." 

As she left the house, she thought she heard mumblings of an all-night M*A*S*H marathon scheduled for that night. 

~*~*~ 

Once again Rory made her way to her locker. The day seemed to be a bit more amiable then its predecessor, for the door opened with ease. Surprised, but pleasantly so, she exchanged her books and set off to find her new morning class. 

Feeling rather pleased with herself, she walked down the crowded halls of Chilton, an obliging locker, no Tristan, and she got to trade a period of French. Life just didn't get any better. Except for that nagging voice in the back of her mind that insisted Tristan wasn't that bad. She squelched it violently. 

Room 213. This was it. She pushed open the door and found the class wasn't all there. She also saw her perfect morning shatter before her eyes, for sitting in the front row, her immaculate Chilton uniform pressed and cleaned, her patented maddening smirk spread across her face, was her scholarly adversary. 

One Paris Gellar. 

"Oy vey." She groaned as she shuffled over to an empty seat, Paris grinned wider. 

"I thought you were taking French?" 

'_I'll show you French…_.' She thought with ill will. But Paris began speaking again. 

"You need to go sign in." She said. An uncanny light in her normally glaring eyes. Rory, for good reason, felt unsettled, but rose to do what she said. With a backward glance, she approached the teachers desk. 

"Hello." She greeted, the teacher merely looked up at her. 

"Name?" came the bland response. 

"Rory Gilmore." A shuffling of papers. 

"I don't have a 'Rory Gilmore'." She responded. 

"Oh, they must have put you had a 'Lorelei Gilmore', right?" 

The old prune of a woman just shook her head. 

"Look, don't waste my time, you're not in this class or you have a schedule problem. Get to class or go to the office." 

Her feeling of unsettlement rising, she turned to gather her things. Paris just smirked. Rory scowled. 

"What did you do Paris?" her anger getting the better of her. 

"What did I do?" came the not in the slightest innocent reply. "I did nothing." How could a person smirk that hard and not split their face? "But I may have instigated a few changes…" 

"What-" Cut off by the galling voice of the teacher, she was forced to leave. 

Walking down the halls of Chilton once more, Rory didn't know quite how yet, but revenge would be sweet. 

~*~*~ 

Over the past thirty minutes, Rory had acquired a noticeable twitch. 

Paris had managed to switch her to public telecommunications. Public telecommunications! Her mind told her to calm down, it would all turn out okay. Her mind was an idiot. This would certainly not be okay. The rational part of her told her it would be best for her career choice anyway. Who needed rationality anyway? 

In any event, it all might have ended okay. Key word being _might_. For upon entering her new classroom, and seeing only one face she knew, her heart hit the floor. 

Of course, it made perfect sense. _He_ would have to have chosen this course. That unbelievable cocky glance he tossed her way gave her the impression that he had done it for the sole purpose of making her life hell. 

One semester. 

One semester with Tristan DuGrey. 

One semester with Tristan DuGrey and a dearth of coffee in this depraved school. 

The twitch worsened. 

~*~*~ 

He followed her with his eyes as she sat down, utterly defeated, utterly dejected. He wished he didn't smirk at her like he did. He wished that when she saw him he couldn't see that look of revolted horror in her eyes. He wished he could say he liked her, and wanted to be her friend. 

Normally Tristan was not a believer in Fate. Or a believer in friendship for that matter, but as he felt unfamiliar emotions bubble up from their long hiatus as he glanced at her soft hair, he wondered. Could this be his second chance? Would he take it? Was she worth it? 

Turning to gaze at her profile, perceiving an eye twitch, he smiled, a smile quite unlike the one he was used too. Perhaps, maybe just _perhaps..._ things could be different. 

The door opened, momentarily snapping him out of his elucidating thoughts, allowing their new teacher walk in. 

"Welcome," he said, "To basic Public Communications." 

~*~*~ 

_To be continued…when the non-French speaking author gets around to it…_   



End file.
